Dirty Jobs
by Fandomatic
Summary: Humorous look at how an interview with Jason Bourne would go on Dirty Jobs with Mike Rowe. No point, really, except to ridicule a deeply disturbed fictional character.
1. Dirty Jobs

**Disclaimer:** In no way does this remotely reflect reality or accurately personify the TV personalities depicted. How could they when they are interacting with a fictional character I don't own and don't make any money from?

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**Dirty Jobs**

The camera tilted wildly and focused on the two men standing outside the New York Subway entrance. Both men were handsome and dressed in shades of black.

"Hi, I'm Mike Rowe, and this is _Dirty Jobs_. Today we're following Jason Bourne, CIA black ops assassin, AKA David Webb, the agent responsible for uncovering a filthy conspiracy within the CIA."

"I don't see how this is going to work," Jason pointed out. "This is suppose to be 'covert.' You're going to have to turn off the cameras."

"Bourne is on a really dirty job for the CIA and he's on a mission to whack someone," Mike continued. "Jason, what's the first thing you do on a dirty job like this?" Mike turned to the black ops man.

"Well, Mike _if_ I were a CIA operative, I'd aim a kick into the boom guy's groin first…." His voice faded as the sound man backed up.

"Just a minute there, uh…Rea!" Mike motioned off camera frantically to the sound girl and his voice came back. "Why would you say your job is dirty?"

"Whacking someone isn't exactly a clean lifestyle, Mike. People are filthy when they get whacked. Brains, guts, crap and blood usually gets all over the place." Jason Bourne grimaced. "I usually wash my hands. HIV exposure being what it is the the world today, assassins should be issued rubber gloves. Personally, I prefer the syringe—more sanitary—_if_ I was an assassin. However, I don't really do that anymore."

"Sounds like there's an element of danger to your job that most people haven't considered."

"Most people object to getting whacked, Mike. They don't exactly take it sitting down," Jason explained. "They usually put up a fight."

"Jason, how do you prepare for that?"

"Well, I try to stay in shape. Currently I'm taking an aerobics class at the YMCA. A weight lifting regime in the morning and kick boxing lessons. It pretty much takes up all my spare time. Besides the workouts, I try to use surprise as much as possible. When your target is surprised, it's just more professional."

"Some people say you're just a glorified murderer. How would you respond to that?"

"Well, as I explained, I don't do that anymore. My missions saved American lives and were government sanctioned. I was a professional and I took my job seriously. I never knowingly whacked anyone that didn't need it."

Mike looked into the camera. "Well, there you have it: America's Dirtiest Job, the CIA black ops assassin." He turned back to Jason. "Now tell me how I'm going to complete this mission for you, Jason. What kind of protective clothing do I have to wear?"

"Black nondescript clothing is best. Reversible coat, if you have it. A water-proof watch is essential. Your lucky Spiderman underwear, that's pretty much all you need."

"Why the Spiderman underwear?"

"It helps my Spidysense tingle and it protects your pants from the crap you're going to dump in your drawers."

"Wow! Sounds like my kind of job," Mike said into the camera. "Let's get started. Who are we going to whack today?" He rubbed his hands vigorously.

"That's top secret, Mike. If I told you, I'd have to kill you too." Jason smirked. "Gotcha! Like I said, I don't do that anymore." Jason rubbed the back of his skull again. "Gee, with all these cameras everywhere, we're going to have to go in undercover."

"What are you thinking, Jason?"

"Mike, if you want to do this job, you've got to be able to think on your feet and turn a liability into an asset."

"Alright, I'm on my feet and thinking—uh, what?"

"You're going to go in as Mike Rowe, _Dirty Jobs_, to interview the target. You can whack him then."

"How am I going to interview the target if I don't know who it is?"

"Good thinking, Mike. This guy has a really dirty job. He's a traitor to America. He's so subversive, that thousands of American's lose their dreams everyday because of him. And the best part is, he's not really American."

"Uh, if he's a traitor, doesn't it follow he has to be an American?"

"No." Jason Bourne scowled. "A traitor is a traitor. Time to move."

"Okay, we're on the move with Dirty Jobs!" Mike started walking down the street with Jason Bourne. "Now what?"

"Answer your phone, Mike." Jason dropped back ten steps behind.

Mike's pocket began to ring and he dug an unfamiliar phone out. "Hello?" He hammed a face at his camera. "Did you just drop this phone in my pocket while I wasn't looking?"

"_Listen very carefully. I need you to hail a cab. There is one coming up two blocks behind us,"_ the disembodied voice said.

"Okay, now we're getting somewhere!" Mike stepped off the curb and flagged down the taxi.

The SUV cab opened and Mike climbed in with the coordinator, sound and camera guy getting in the back. Jason Bourne climbed in the last seat and motioned the other crew off, closing the door.

A bronx voice greeted them with "Where's yous guys go'n taday?"

"Radio City Music Hall," Jason answered.

Immediately, the interior of the cab lit up with colored light panels that revolved around the passengers.

"Welcome to the Cash Cab!"


	2. Cash Cab

**Cash Cab**

"Welcome to Cash Cab!" The driver turned around in his seat and surveyed the crew that had wedged into his cab. "I'm Benjamin Bailey, and you're in the Cash Cab. This is the game show that gets you going. Do you want to play?"

"Hey, this isn't your time slot!" objected Mike Rowe.

"Play it cool. We're undercover now. You have to go with the flow," Jason hissed into his phone. "Sure, we'll play."

"This is the show that gets you there as long as you can answer the questions. Remember, three strikes and you're out," Benjamin sing songed out. "Are you ready to play?"

"Yes."

"I'm going to have to ask you to hang up your phones, guys. Remember, you can give a shout out if you're stumped."

Grumpily, Jason closed his phone.

"Alright, let's introduce ourselves back there. Who do we have?"

"Rea."

"Will."

"Troy."

"Mike."

"Leslie," Jason smoothly lied and gave a 'duh' grimace to Mike.

"Okay, Rea, Will, Troy, Mike…." Benjamin started.

"I'm_ Mark_," Mike said. "You heard me wrong, I said 'Mark.'" He made a thumbs up to Jason.

"Okay, Rea, Will, Troy, _Mark_ and Leslie, these questions are worth $25 each. Here's the first question: What…."

"Hey, I should get a handicap here," Jason interrupted. "I have amnesia."

Benjamin consulted his producers over his radio net and came back with, "Sorry, no handicap for amnesiacs without a notorized doctor's note. You get booted out same as everyone else if you can't answer the questions. Now are you ready to play?"

"Well how am I suppose to know anything if I don't remember it?" Jason whined.

"Here's the question," Benjamin plowed bravely on. "What group of settlers was known for cannibalism in the 1800's?"

"Wow, that would be a really dirty job!" Mike hammed into his camera. "Even better than a black ops assassin."

"Rea, Will, Troy, Got any ideas back there?" Jason prompted.

"Does our guild cover participating on a rival game show?" the camera guy asked the sound girl. Their heads huddled together as they consulted each other.

"Ten seconds, guys," Benjamin warned.

"Okay, we decided we can stay, but we can't help," the camera man announced. "We're suppose to be invisible to the public."

"Well, that's pretty stupid," Jason threw up his hands. "If you're so invisible, how come I can see you?"

"Ohhh!" groaned Ben. "Time's up fellas. The answer was the Donar Party. Better luck next time. That's one strike. Two more and you're out, so listen carefully." Benjamin paused to change lanes.

Jason's head swiveled and he noticed a chase car changing lanes behind them. They had a surveillance camera in the front with them. And ahead, another van slowed down.

"Next question playing for $25, What American president led a group called the Rough Riders?"

"That must have been an exceptionally dirty job!" Mike crowed again.

"Mark, we have a tail," Jason said in an undertone to Mike.

"Where?"

"Six o'clock."

"That's their camera crew, you know, so they can cut to the cab stopping at a red light."

"Time's up!" Benjamin said. "The answer is Theodore Roosevelt. This may be a first for the Cash Cab. That's two strikes in a row. One more and you're out."

Jason leaned closer to Mike. "That's only what they want you to think. My Spidysense is tingling. There's a conspiracy here to compromise a covert operation and make it public knowledge. We have to act."

"Okay, here's your next question. Who assassinated President Kennedy in Dallas, Texas?"

"Ooo, I think I know this one," Jason brightened. "That would be Carlos the Jackal."

"Rrrrr-wrong!" Benjamin made a face. "That's three strikes and you're outta here."

"Wrong again, Ben." Jason's .40 Caliber Sig Sauer pressed up against the faux cabbie's head. "It _was_ Carlos the Jackal. I _know_ he was there! Now we're going to switch seats."

The transition was recorded by Troy, the camera man, who climbed over everyone to get into the front passenger seat.

As soon as Jason was in the driver seat and strapped in tight, he floored the cab through a red light, pushing two stationary cars aside and narrowly missing the cross traffic. The chase van followed, trying to catch up. Troy's big camera swiveled wildly catching all the action.

Jason downshifted and stomped on the brake to turn into a narrow alley.

"Hey! Get that camera outta my crotch!" Bourne yelled at Troy. "Can't you see I'm driving here! It's hard enough to multitask here without having a camera stuck in your crotch ever ten seconds!"

"I'm just doing my job."

"Well, do it from over there!" Jason yelled as he turned another corner and slammed on the break. The sound girl and crew coordinator tumbled forward into Mike and Benjamin in the middle seats.

Jason turned around to look at them. "Everybody stay where you are!" A confused eruption of voices exploded from the human pile.

"Hey, watch it with that boom! Ouch! You shoulda buckled up, you dumb…."

"Aaaank! Wrong answer!" Bourne shifted into reverse and backed, full-throttle, into the chase van emerging from the alley. The grunts and groans from the human pile increased.

"Don't make me come back there!" He turned the wheel and the Cash Cab flipped around to face the opposite direction and he punched it. Sparks flew from the sagging bumper as it dragged the pavement.

His passengers sorted themselves out and squeezed uncomfortably together in the center seats. The back seats were crushed up against their seats and the interior game-show lights buzzed and sputtered sparks.

"Look at this mess!" Benjamin cried. "You've wrecked my Cash Cab!"

"Think of the ratings, Ben," Mike consoled.

"Welcome to the _Crash_ Cab," Bourne greeted them sardonically. "Where every wrong answer gets a new bumper. Are you ready to play?"

"I'm suppose to read the questions!" Ben objected.

"Aaaank! Wrong Answer! Buckle up!" Jason skidded sideways and slammed the cab against the lead van that had just emerged from a side street. They raced neck to neck down the avenue. The lead van forced them into the oncoming traffic and horns blared. Shots rang out and Bourne whipped out his gun and fired four shots over Troy's camera at the bad guys.

"Here's your next question. How many rounds do I have left in my .40 Caliber Sig Sauer?" He asked.

The cab swerved left around another corner leaving the van to plow forward along the avenue.

"Does it hold nine rounds or thirteen?" Mike asked Ben.

"I think it's thirteen," Benjamin responded. "Did he fire four shots or five?"

Bourne turned the cab at the next block racing toward the van that he calculated would round the next corner.

"It was four," Mike said.

"You have to ask yourself if you feel lucky today." Jason steered around a slowing vehicle. "Well, do yah, punk?"

"Okay, we're going to say nine."

"Aaank! Wrong answer!" Jason crowed and aimed the cab toward the rear bumper of the lead van. "That would be eight!" The front of the cab clipped the van on it's rear bumper, flipping it over on its side. The Cash Cab plowed down the street with the front hood buckled and smoke boiling out of the engine. The engine died with a sputtering clank and the Cash Cab rolled to a halt at Radio City Music Hall in front of a long line of kids that stretched around the block.

"Thank you for playing the Crash Cab." Jason had to kick his door open. The passenger airbag exploded behind the exiting passengers.

"Look at the damage!" Ben couldn't believe his eyes as he surveyed the scars and buckled panels on his once pristine cab.

"As you can see, demolition is not a pretty job. This is Mike Rowe with_ Dirty Jobs, _and we'll be right back after this station break." Mike hitched his pants. "Jason, I'm going to need a change of underwear. I'm a dirty, dirty boy."


	3. American Idol

**American Idol**

Mike cleared his throat, took a breath, looked up at the sky and shook his shoulders. Will trotted up with a paper in his hand. "Mike! We're good!" He waved the paper. "I got the contract."

"Jason!" Mike waved him over from the long line of youth that extended down the avenue and around the corner. "We're ready." He straightened and assumed the casual stance of Mike Rowe in front of his camera man.

"Hello, we're back with Jason Bourne and a very very dirty job. A job so dirty, it makes you unclean on the inside and outside." Mike turned to Jason who had walked up and asked. "So now that we made it to our destination at Radio City Music Hall in one piece, less one taxi cab, what do we do here?"

"I'm going in undercover, Mike."

"Now is there anything dirty about that?"

"Well, in order to get close to the target, I need a really good cover. So, I was thinking I'd go in as your makeup artist since you don't have one."

"That's because _Dirty Jobs_ does a real number with sweat, dirt, grime, crap, and soot that no other show is willing to do. We do makeup with the _real_ world!" Mike hammed a face at the camera. "But for this particular job, we do need a real makeup artist, because beyond these doors I'm told is a subversive non-American male who crushes thousands of dreams all across America and my job is to whack him. Now, to do that, I'm going to interview him as myself about his own very dirty job!" Mike paused dramatically. "And who exactly is this dirty dream crusher, Jason?"

"That would be Simon from American Idol."

"Millions of grateful fans will be celebrating this dirty job tonight! Let's get to it, Jason."

"I've got my makeup kit right here, Mike." And Jason patted his .40 Caliber Sig Sauer.

The crew turned and passed through the doors to the Broadway theater and sailed past hundreds of numbered New York City contestants waiting to warble their lungs out for the judges. Ryan Seacrest waved them through the final doors. Mike stopped just inside the doors and turned on his camera smile.

"Hi, this is _Dirty Jobs_ with Mike Rowe and I'm with one of the judges for American Idol who has one of the filthiest jobs around. We're here today to find out why Simon's job is so filthy. Hello, Simon!"

Simon looked up from his judges table with a bleary catatonic look and called for a break. He stumbled off the judges platform and over to Mike. "Thank God you're here to save me from this rot. Bloody New Yorkers think they can carry a tune." He rubbed his eyes. "So I hear you're willing to fill in for me."

"I sure am, because this is _Dirty Jobs_!" Mike rubbed his hands. "So what do I have to do to start?"

"Well, Mike, you have to realize that you're the only judge standing between a good show and a fantastic season. Face it, the other judges can't handle the truth. So you have to be strong and verbalize the dirtiest thoughts about these hopeful contestants. Do you think you can do that?"

"That's what _Dirty Jobs_ is all about—shoveling crap out!" Mike frowned. "Only this time I'll be doing it out of my mouth. Wow! That _is_ a filthy job!" He brightened. "Let's go meet the other judges."

"Hi, Paula. Hi, Randy."

"Hi, Mike," Paula and Randy chorused dully. Paula reached for her bottle of Advil and popped some pills. Randy waved to the doorman for the next contestant to enter.

"So Simon, you got any pointers for me?" Mike asked.

"What you should do is find the most obnoxious thing to criticize while Paula and Randy are waxing eloquently about nothing." Simon leaned back in the extra chair and slipped some Ipod earbuds in his ears. "If you need me, I'll be right here zoning out."

Mike looked into his camera. "Story of my love life," he said.

Number 851 labored onto the stage carrying a cream-stuffed bagel in her hand, still chewing. "That one's just too easy," Simon added and closed his eyes.

She opened with "Somewhere over the rainbow" and got as far as "once in a lullaby" before Randy shouted "Thank you!" in an abrupt manner.

"No thanks. I admire you for coming out here and trying today, but I don't think you have what it takes to be on American Idol," Randy shook his head and looked to Paula.

"Honey, that was beautifully put and I have to agree. Sorry." Paula and Randy looked to Mike.

"That was…horrific," Mike eagerly enthused. "If you're going to chew your cud on stage, at least swallow before you open your mouth. That was almost foul enough for _Dirty Jobs!_"

She lumbered off the stage crying and banged out the doors.

Simon smiled and started to hum to himself.

"Makeup!" Mike yelled and Jason hurried over. "How long do I have to wait to whack Simon?" he whispered.

"There's too many contestants still waiting to get in," Bourne whispered back as number 852 walked onto the stage. "We need more than half of them crushed and ready to riot so we can safely get away."

"Oh." Mike looked uneasy as the next contender opened his mouth and sang a slow rendition of _New York, New York. _

"That wasn't half bad," Randy said encouragingly. "But maybe next year. Sorry."

"You're so right, Randy. That wasn't half bad, but I'm going to have to say no." Paula batted her eyes.

"If that wasn't just half bad, Paula, it wasn't even half good! That was a mediocre performance at best!" Mike grinned. "That wasn't even good enough for _Dirty Jobs!_"

Number 852 shook his fist at Mike as he exited.

"Uh, makeup break!" Jason yelled and hurried in to Mike's side. "Gee, Mike, if you make 'em all mad at you, we'll never get out of here alive!" He scanned the room. "You better tone it down a little."

"This was your idea! I'm just doing what I do best, shovel it on thick!"

"Nice work there, Mike. You're going to get us all killed!" Jason hissed and backed away again.

Number 853 was clearing her throat on stage. Her voice was so grating that it gave Jason a migraine and provoked a particularly nasty memory from his past life as an assassin. As he clutched his ears and sank down to the ground, panting, he heard Randy compliment her makeup and hair and how feminine and together she looked.

Paula agreed sweetly and added, "but your appearance doesn't match your voice, so I'm going to have to say no."

"No. No. No. But if this was a drag queen contest, I'd have to consider it," Mike said.

Jason stumbled toward the judges table as 853 stumbled off the stage in shock. He grabbed Paula's pill bottle and spilled a few into his shaking hands. He washed them down with Paula's enormous water bottle.

Paula looked kindly to him and sympathized, "I get that a lot."

854 was already taking the stage and she belted out the wrong words to Michael Jackson's _Beat It_.

Paula and Randy were nice but firm in denying a ticket to California. Mike cleared his throat and launched into her. "I have only two words to say to that. Beat it." She left in tears.

Jason wondered to the back of the theater where a group of producers were mingling and eavesdropped while the contestants continued to mount the stage behind them. Their group voices mixed into a whispered conversation that floated to his ears.

"He's better than Simon at this. It would be good for ratings to cut one of the most hated men in America. But that's why people watch—to see Simon Says! People deserve to hear the truth, however painful it might be. But it would be better coming from an American. Well, how are we going to get out of our contract…."

Bourne was brought painfully back to the judges' table with the word "makeup!" ringing in his head.

"Not so loud. My head's killing me."

"So's mine," Mike whispered back. "I don't think I can last here. This job is just too dirty for me. My ears really hurt here! Can't we whack him now so we can get outta here? I can't take much more of this."

"Well, I've been thinking, Mike. You're just too good at Simon's job. We're liable to get mobbed leaving here tonight if you keep dishing out the dirt all night, so it'd be better to whack him now."

"Okay, so what do I do?"

"I told you, I don't do this kind of thing anymore."

"What? You're Jason Bourne, known black ops assassin and the CIA's dirty little secret! I'm suppose to do your dirty little job. How can I do that if you won't help me?"

"I sort of quit."

"What do you mean, 'sort of?'"

"Well, when they're shooting back at you, it's sort of a mutual understanding."

"This isn't turning out to be very dirty, you know. I was looking forward to brains and blood and crap everywhere. Then doing the little hand washing routine to sanitize it all." Mike sighed.

"Well, don't despair. We may have to kill a few 'idols' to get out of here alive. My Spidysense is tingling again."

And with that, Mike heard the low rumble of angry voices just outside the door.

"Listen. You stay here and I'm going to go check out the riot." Jason calmly exited behind another crushed contestant.

As Mike continued to drop nasty comments to the contestants, the rumble increased. Between "I'd bet you'd make a great vacuum cleaner, cause you suck" and "Chalkboard never sounded better" the angry cadence had risen to a disturbing crescendo.

"Makeup!" Mike motioned frantically as soon as he saw Jason returning.

"You take more makeup breaks than me!" Paula huffed.

Bourne knelt behind the judges' table. "We've got a little problem," he whispered.

"What?"

"The producers put out a contract on Simon because they want you to replace him. They're working up the idols into a riot so the kill looks like a riot incident."

Mike had turned white. "I can't do this job, Jason! It's too filthy for me. We've got to save Simon!"

"Well if you'd a toned it down like I said to, none of this would be happening!" Jason hissed back. "Why doesn't anyone ever listen to me?"

Just then, the double doors between the Judges and the contestants burst open and loud singing from an angry idol mob roared over their ears._ Dirty basements, dirty noise; Dirty places coming through..._


	4. Into The Looking Glass

**Into The Looking Glass**

The_ Idols_ contestants came in with brooms and pitchforks that were bussed in from Home Depot by the producers. They didn't miss a trick.

The lot was a garish affair. Some dressed in costumes, some wearing odd layers of indescribable fashions, some in gang banger jeans and even one with a hand puppet. But all of them had large white papers pinned to their torsos with black numbers assigned to them.

"Gee," Jason blinked and focused again on the group. "That's a beautiful deck of playing cards." He shook his head and looked again. The expression in his face faded and he griped Mike's shoulder. "Do you see him! He's here! The assassin!"

"Where?" Alarmed, Mike rose out of his chair. "Describe him."

"He's a machine! An automaton with a stubby nose and a wooden expression. It's him! It's my doppelganger—my nemesis!"

"Where?"

"He's the one wearing a wire." Jason pulled out his gun and handed it to Mike. "Take this and get Simon to the security booth. I'll hold them off here."

Mike didn't have to be told twice, but Simon did. But when Mike showed him the gun, he decided to cooperate. They finally retreated ducking out of the hall and into a side corridor followed by their camera teams.

Jason focused on his adversary and stepped out in front of the mob purposefully. Their singing died in their throats as they witnessed his crazed eyes.

"It was you!" Jason advanced on the Idols who fell slightly back and parted in surprise. "It was always you!"

The macabre marionette centered within the mob of Idols turned slowly to face off with him; his expression revealing nothing; his eyes fixed open, missing nothing; wired for action. And the Idols split to either side revealing his chiseled form.

"I was created to defeat you!" Pinocchio's piping voice popped out. Instantly Pinocchio's nose grew an inch.

"What?" Jason snorted. "A small lost wooden boy, my double?"

"Hey, you took the little red Paula pills and fell down the rabbit hole. Not me!"

"So…, what? Are you going to try and garrote me with your string? It's been tried!"

"I'm alive! I'm alive! I don't need any strings!" The nose extended another inch. "I have invisible strings!" Another inch of nose popped out. "Okay, we all have our strings attached!" The nose continued to grow.

"You're saying I don't have free will?" Bourne's hand flashed forward and grabbed the offending nose and jerked it toward him. The nose kept growing out of Pinocchio's head longer and longer.

"Give me back my nose!" the piping nasal voice cried out before it morphed into the rest of the broom.

Jason wheeled the staff around and cracked four Idols heads in succession, the broom a whirl of force and contention. The contention seemed to be _run like hell from the hallucinating mad man._

_Idols_ contestants stormed the side doors in full retreat leaving five gang bangers in their wake wired with head gear. The broom didn't faze their advance.

The Latino gang members lined up side by side to take him. An assortment of weapons were held in their hands. A chain, a bat, knuckle rings, ninja star, and a pair of num chucks. Their black tee-shirts and baggy blue jeans were uniform among them. All of them wore red bandannas in some fashion on their bodies—tucked in a pocket or tied around an arm, head or neck. But the jeans riveted Bourne's attention.

He shook his head and focused again on the baggy pants, thinking he was hallucinating once again. The pant waists slung low under the cheeks of the Latino gang and revealed a lovely assortment of boxers. With every movement they were in danger of falling down.

"You all came dressed to kill?" Jason side stepped right toward the end of the line.

"We luke for Simon," the leader with the bat spoke.

"Luke? Oh…, _look_." Bourne edged more to the right toward the now deserted judges' table and the opposite exit. "He's not here. Uh, you'll have to come back later." He could swear his nose just grew an inch.

"You protect him, no?"

"No." Jason inched away as his nose inched outward. _Why was his nose getting longer?_

"You lie. I can see it in your face, mon." The leader slapped the bat against his hand. "You lie to us. You lie to yourself. You must face the truth. The truth of the bat."

"I can't." The nose grew another inch.

"Where ez Simon?!" The bat lifted menacingly.

"Truth? You can't handle the truth!" Jason swept the broom up with his right hand, blocked the bat, while his left shot out and grabbed Paula's enormous water bottle and thunked bat man across the head.

Chain man slung the chain around the broom end, but Bourne was prepared and yanked him forward into the path of the ninja star that was aimed right at his nose. The star buried into the neck of the chain man and he went down.

num chucks and knuckle rings closed in fast behind ninja man but Jason dropped his weapons and twisted ninja man's arm behind his back to use him as a human shield against num chucks and knuckles.

His human shield's legs buckled under the assault, so he shoved him hard against num chucks and let him go to grab Chuckle's wrist. The numb went into the wrist and the antagonist unwillingly chucked the weapon.

Jason cracked an elbow into Chuckle's head but he crumpled into him, falling over ninja man with Knuckles pressing in from behind. As he fell back under the weight of Chuckles, he reached over to yank Knuckles' pants down. Knuckles tripped over his cool baggies and fell in a tangled mess. Jason levered Chuckles to the side and aimed a hard kick to Knuckles head and knocked him out.

When he rose from the tangled bodies strewn around him, a struggling ninja man was reaching toward the bat, so Jason mercifully booted his head too.

His stubby nose, back to normal size, flared with each breath as he sized up the damage. Chain man's blood spread over the floor in a slippery pool of gore. His dead eyes stared up from a half severed neck. He backed away from the horror, slipping slightly on the blood.

In the waking silence of the battle his attention shifted to the double doors. Distant sirens screamed their arrival. His eyes went to the surveillance cameras mounted discreetly behind the one way mirrored bulbs and he started to move quickly toward the exit, but stopped to take bat man's radio and head gear off his ear.

He found the security room with about a dozen crew members crawling up and down the hall with equipment, trailing cables and light stands. The room sat tucked away on the second floor behind the central stage and hosted a bank of monitors with four-way split screens.

Mike had Simon and the security team sitting at the bank of monitors under gunpoint and he waved Jason over to his side.

"I'm Mike Rowe and we're back with _Dirty Jobs_. We just saw an incredible battle take place over the security cameras and the Radio City Music Hall was kind enough to download the footage for us. So how dirty are you?"

"I'm not exactly a morning person after I kill someone. You better take that camera out of my face, Troy!" Jason's attention focused back on Mike who had been waving the gun about expressively. "Give me the damn gun!"

"Are you hurt?" Mike put the gun in his hands. "There's blood on your hands."

"The human body contains a little less than one and a half gallons of blood, Mike." Jason grimly tucked the gun away in his coat pocket. "That's why I wear black. It doesn't show." He turned back to the camera man. "I mean it, Troy!"

"Uh, well, okay. Maybe we'll pick up on the dirt a bit later, Troy. So what are we doing here in this security room, Jason."

"Well, we're going to download the dirt on Simon's producers. They were plotting in the back of the theater about 11:15 this morning." Jason looked to the sudden activity in the main monitor. "We better hurry. The police are on their way now."

Faint whistles blew as New York's finest rushed the doors and surrounded the gory scene. Behind them came Ben Bailey and his camera crew. Ben looked very angry. Behind the crew came a mob of _American Idol_ hopefuls led by Ryan Seacrest. They all looked angry.

"Hey, isn't that Ben Bailey from _Cash Cab?" _Simon leaned forward in his chair. "What the bloody hell is he doing here?"

"Focus, here!" Bourne yelled. "Find the footage now!" His gun whipped out and pressed against the sweating security guy's temple. "Or, by God, I'll show Mike here just how disgusting your brains look on him!"

The Security guard knew when to keep his mouth shut and search for the footage. Seeing he was in full compliance, Jason lowered his gun again and felt quite disgusted with himself. His oppressive mood infused the room with tension.

As the security man worked they watched the police block off the main theater and shove the mob back into the hall corridors. The mob, led by Ben Bailey, did a super sneak up through the mezzanine over the main lobby and around the other side of the theater, searching for the _Dirty Jobs_ crew. The trail of stalkers stretched all the way around the theater corridors, up over the lower balcony, down through the other corridor and out into the street. And the mob was still coming.

When the security man found and downloaded the footage into Jason's phone, Bourne had returned to his cool demeanor. "How close are they?" Jason asked as he furiously worked the menu of his phone.

"They're still searching the ground floor," Simon supplied. "They're half way here."

"What are you doing?" Mike asked.

"Saving Simon," Jason responded. "I'm uploading our theater movie to CNN and You TUBE. When the _Idols_ find out what the producers are up to, they'll turn on each other."

"How long will that take?"

"This is New York where everyone's plugged in." He ended the phone call. "When the message gets out, then we get out. Until then, we go up."

"Why up?"

"I always go up. It's my motif. Look, we can't go down. That's toward hell and about 400 people. I was just there."

"We can't go up," Simon interrupted. "The line is diverging. The gang leaders are cutting off our retreat!" His finger pointed to the monitors showing three separate lines climbing up above them into the third floor corridors.

"What are we going to do?" Mike asked.

"What I do best—create a little diversion of our own." Jason almost smiled as he pulled out the gang banger's radio.

"I got Simon," He said in Spanish. "He's trapped on the balcony of the third floor."

"_Wha's up? You know I can't un'erstan' that Mexicano crap!" _The voice crackled from the speaker.

"I have found thees Simon," Jason tried again. "He's in de balcony on thees floor número three."

"_The upper mezzanine?"_

"Si." Jason watched the three prongs of the advancing army turn and head toward the other side of the theater. "Time to move."

Jason pointed the crews toward the corner stairwell and hustled the four security men out of the room. He collected their tasers that Mike had thoughtfully left him and proceeded to zap the computer stacks one by one until the entire bank of monitors had gone dark.

It cheered him considerably.

As Jason headed toward the roof, he automatically cataloged the players positions in his head. There seemed to be an endless butt load of them.


	5. Up, Up, And Away

**Up, Up, And Away**

_Let's recap at this point. _

_Mike Rowe is followed by a crew of three, one with a heavy camera, one with a long boom and microphone, and one carrying the clipboard—in charge of chaos at this particular place and time. _

_Following the _Dirty Jobs_ crew is the _American Idol_ B-team of eleven with Simon Cowell. Eleven because he's a prime time star and the mobile B-team was the only one available that his coordinator could enlist on such short notice. Simon had two camera men, two sound men, two grips, one make up artist, one hair stylist, one set stylist, one personal assistant and his malfunctioning set coordinator who was entirely flustered with moving lights and large reflective panels up a set of service stairs._

_Giving chase and intent on whacking Simon Cowell from _American Idol_ were an unknown number of Latino gang bangers [estimate of 15 with unknown weapons that didn't entirely speak the Latino vernacular and had been diverted to the third floor mezzanine which gave our heroes time to move their gear past them and up to the roof._

_Benjamin Bailey, who hadn't been diverted to the third floor mezzanine, was rounding the last hall of the second floor and spotted the tail end of the _American Idol_ crew walking into the stairwell. Ben's crew consisted of three very rattled members and none of them carried any equipment because all of their equipment had been broken in the "Crash Cab" incident. Payback was primarily on their minds as they led seven of New York Cities' finest down the hall._

_The seven members representing the New York City Police Department were primarily after one Jason Bourne for high jacking the _Cash Cab_ and for detaining a character of dubious suspicion in the murder of a gang banger. Dubious, because they really didn't care that the gang banger bought it. _

_They would've been eight but one of their finest had to arrest the gang banger responsible for indecent exposure._

_Following the policemen were Ryan Seacrest and his working C-team of six. Ryan's crew had a working camera man, sound man, grip, makeup artist, stylist and set coordinator. They were busy filming all the action taking place around them. _

_After Ryan came some 400 odd slovenly dressed wanna-be's all pinned with a letter-sized paper with black numbers uniting them. There was some contention in the ranks as to whether they were after Simon or Mike Rowe with_ Dirty Jobs._ They were united in theory to pound someone who had crushed their hopes and dreams today. _

_And into this mist of calamity enters Jason Bourne, who'd swallowed Paula's red pills and fell down the rabbit hole to find himself playing the role of Pinocchio in a house of tenuous cards. Ever consistent with his own personal demons eroding his peace of mind, he is faithful to the end to the lies he clutches to himself. Mechanical, methodical, he exists as a wooden puppet of his own borrowed character. Lost, existing from moment to moment with no visible future in sight, he mounts the stairs toward a mere metaphor of hope._

_At this particular moment there is no change, there is no hope, there is no movement toward the light. These are all lies that encompass his spirit, such as it is. For each task has embraced the violence, moving him further into the darkness, further into the abyss._

_The last thought before he rushed through the rooftop door he vocalized as "Damn, I need a new career."_

* * *

"Hi, I'm Mike Rowe with _Dirty Jobs_ and we're back with Jason Bourne, double secret black ops agent for the CIA. Jason, we've just climbed to the roof of Radio City Music Hall to save Simon Cowell with _American Idol_ from certain death below. Can you tell me what we're doing on the roof?" 

"We're running away," Jason replied.

"So this has nothing to do with waiting for CNN to break the news that_ Idol_ producers have put out a contract on Simon's life?"

"They have guns, knives, pitchforks, and a whole slew of nasty weapons back there. No, at this point, I'd say we're just getting the hell outta Dodge."

"I thought the news story was suppose to stop the assassination."

"Do you really think Simon's going to be safe at any given point in his career?" Jason looked at his watch.

"What's the plan?"

"Well, I usually scale the wall and go down the fire escape."

"Hey, I can't do that!" Troy objected and lowered the camera. "How am I suppose to film and carry the equipment at the same time!"

"Hey._ Mr. Invisible!"_ Bourne barked at him.

"Couldn't we just hire a helicopter?" Simon suggested.

"Not enough time."

"So, what do we do, Jason?"

"It's time to reverse our coats, Mike."

The two shrugged off their jackets and turned them, Jason revealing a soft tan exterior and the other a blue. Bourne borrowed a few ball caps from the grips and tossed them to Simon and Mike. He took Troy's camera and started filming. "Get the boom, Mike. You're on sound. Rea and Troy, get invisible with the _Idols_. You two over there, You're the CNN Newsbies team and we've got a story coming up the stairs: _Simon Targeted For Assassination!"_

Simon saw what the _Dirty Jobs_ team was doing and got quickly behind the camera. He put his camera man on the flood lights and got Rea on the sound. Troy held a reflective panel to ricochet sunlight right into the stairwell cavity.

When the dam burst open, Ben's ragged team was leading the pact right into the spotlight of the CNN Newsbies team. The two grips shoved microphones in their faces and fired off a quick succession of questions to each person flowing out of the door.

"Are you here because Simon Cowell was targeted for assassination? Did you see an assassin try and kill Simon Cowell? Are you the assassin after Simon Cowell? Have you seen the incriminating evidence against the _Idol_ producers on You TUBE?"

The rooftop started to fill up with Idol contestants, policemen and camera crews that milled about restlessly hooked into their phones, absorbing the shocking news, and, above all, denying any involvement with any assassin. With all the loud conversations, it wasn't too long before a fist fight broke out and the mob erupted into a full riot.

"_NOW_!" Jason roared and pulled Mike toward the door. Simon and his crew had the good sense to follow.

As the merged crew made its escape down the stairs, stepping over a few dispersed, injured contestants, they met little resistance other than a stray body or two that tripped up Simon. The seventeen people poured out onto Sixth Avenue and Rockefeller Center without meeting any gang members or resistance.

But it was a whole other matter on the street. Camera crews and double parked news trucks lined the avenue. The nearest reporter was talking into her camera, live.

"…_Idol_ producers deny any involvement with hired guns sent in to assassinate Simon Cowell. However, we've been told there have been at least twenty arrests made inside Radio City Music Hall for assassination conspiracy of a public figure…."

Jason nudged Troy's sleeve and handed the camera back to him. "You point that thing at me again and I'll personally ram it up your backside!" Bourne hissed at him.

"What'd I do?" Troy asked everyone.

"Mike, you're off the hook and Simon's safe for right now." Jason offered his hand and shook it. "I'd appreciate it if you could wrap it up without me. I feel the need for a baptism."

"That's it?" Mike asked after his back as he walked away into the New York crowds. "No blood bath? No brains? Just a little crap? And a 'so long' handshake? Do I look dirty to you? Do I look dirty?"

"Holy_ crap_!" Troy swore a few extra unprintable expletives. "He trashed the film!" His head whirled around looking for Bourne's figure in the crowd. It had disappeared. "The whole day's shoot is _shot_! We got nothing! It's been erased!"

"We got nothing? I went out for a dirty job and came back with squat?!! Do I look dirty to you? Do I even look _slightly_ dirty? Not even a _nosebleed!" _Mike kicked the light stand over disgustedly.

"MIKE ROWE!" a voice roared out of the building entrance and six foot three inches of Benjamin Bailey barreled into him slamming him into the pavement. Bailey raised a meat hook of a fist and struck Mike in the nose. Mike shoved him off and staggered to his feet. Ben rose stiffly and froze in shock as he saw Simon enter the fray.

Simon, who had been talking with the lovely Rea, finally discovered Mike's duplicity for asking him to appear on _Dirty Jobs_. "YOU WERE GOING TO WHACK ME?!!" he clenched through his teeth in a totally British manner and sucker punched Mike in the belly.

Ben and Simon exchanged prior grievance lists and ended up grappling Mike together.

"I'm Mike Rowe with _Dirty Jobs_," Mike yelled from under the pile, "And I can tell you this is a dirty, dirty, dirty job!"


	6. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Mike Rowe could not satisfactorily explain the circumstances leading up to his arrest for public brawling, but his new series of _Dirty Prison Jobs_ won a coveted Emmy nomination.

While Simon Cowell receives a sizable collection of threatening letters today, it in no way matches the astonishing number prior to the assassination attempt at Radio City Music Hall.

Twelve years after the fact, Benjamin Bailey's insurance paid off handsomely on the _Cash Cab_ after a lengthy legal battle that comprised not less than twenty greatly damaged vehicles. The contention over the high jacked vehicle centered on the fact that the crashed cab had mysteriously burst into flame shortly after coming to its final rest, thus destroying any evidence or surveillance tapes within. The bullet holes riddling the lead van's camera had effectively removed any secondary evidence. Meanwhile his franchise has quadrupled in value and a spin off called_ Crash Cab_, driven by his mysterious new nephew, has swept the small country of Equador.

Radio City Music Hall, being the national heritage that it is, was in no way damaged during the typing of this spoof other than a largish blood stain near the stage on the left center isle. No visible damage remained to the security system, although the software had to be completely reloaded on new motherboards.

No visible trace or footage remained of the CIA double secret black ops agent Jason Bourne, except the two frames that caught the edge of his head at the beginning of the surveillance tape from Radio City Music Hall uploaded to You TUBE and CNN, proving Troy and Rea correct in their conclusion that camera crews are in effect 'invisible to the public.'


End file.
